Lots of Rules and No Mercy
by Lorata
Summary: Following Haymitch Abernathy's seditious use of the Arena against his opponent, the Capitol wants to send a message: tributes cannot outwit the Arena, ever. The 52nd Hunger Games involve a very special Arena, and a very, very special Gamemaker. Hunger Games/Portal fusion AU. POV characters from Districts 1, 2, 3, 5, and 9. [IN PROGRESS]


_DISTRICT 2, FEMALE: EMORY_

_AGE: 18_

_TRAINING SCORE: 9_

_ODDS: 6-1_

Before Emory left for the hovercraft, Brutus gripped her by the shoulders and stared at her, his hands digging into her muscles until they ached in protest. "Remember," he told her. "Play it safe. Don't get smart, don't get cute. They might try to bait you, but you just play the Game you were taught how to play and you'll be fine. It's a good, solid win they want this year. You can give them that."

Emory isn't afraid. Having a first-year mentor is a little nerve-wracking, sure, but Brutus won his Games with some of the highest scores that Two has seen in a decade, and he knows what he's doing. Emory has trained for this since she was seven years old, and she wasn't one of the kids who made it almost to thirteen without knowing what she was fighting for. Her parents worked in the quarries and didn't believe in shielding their kids from the facts of life; she's known about the Hunger Games since she was six. She can do this. If a good, solid win is what they want, that's exactly what they'll get.

"Watch out for your terrain," Brutus told her when her stylist gave her a pair of boots with a weird attachment, a piece of metal that wrapped around her calf and hit the ground behind her heel. "Those are shock-absorbing springs. They're meant to help you jump long distances without hurting yourself."

Emory is six foot three and has thighs bigger than her head; they'll have their work cut out for them. But it's not her job to figure it all out, not her job to be clever and try to outthink the Arena, and so she stands in her tube while the platform rises and lets out long, even breaths, clenching her hands into fists and opening them in a slow rhythm. She's ready. She can do this. Anticipation thrums in her veins, blocking out the small twinge of fear that Brutus told her it's okay to feel as long as she lets it keep her sharp, not make her nervous.

That lasts until the platform stops moving and the tube retreats into the ground, leaving Emory alone in a ten-foot box the size of her room in Residential before she got the Volunteer suite, no door or Cornucopia in sight, just a screen on the wall with a one-minute countdown. Panic slams into Emory so hard she nearly falls over, because this is irregular, and irregular is never good. The Arena always has a ring of platforms around the Cornucopia; that's been the way for over fifty years.

Irregular never ends well for Careers, and this isn't just the panic talking. Emory has the casualty lists memorized for every year before her, name and district and Arena and manner of death, and the Careers always die in the years where something changes. In the second Quarter Quell, half of them died in that incident with the volcano alone.

Emory lets the panic rise until it chokes her in the throat like vomit, then she shoves it down. She grips the bracelet on her wrist - her token, the one that marks her kills, her status in the Program and as a Volunteer - and drives the beads into the bones of her wrist; reaches up and presses her thumb against the bruise on her shoulder left by Brutus' fingers. The pain grounds her, sharpens her, just like Brutus told her to.

It's a test, that's all it is. Keep sharp. Keep steady. Don't get smart. She can do this. More than that - she will. Emory finds the nearest camera without moving her head and gives it her best wolf's smile as the timer runs down.

Then the room speaks to her and Emory nearly jumps out of her skin.

* * *

_DISTRICT 9: TERRA_

_AGE: 12_

_TRAINING SCORE: 3_

_ODDS: 60-1_

It's all a mistake. It's a big mistake. Terra wraps her arms around her chest and rocks back and forth. She's twelve years old. She only turned twelve last week. They didn't have a birthday party - nobody in their family has birthday parties from twelve to eighteen, it's bad luck, Mama says, to celebrate - and that was supposed to keep her safe. Don't make a big deal and maybe they won't know. They won't know.

She misses her token. She brought it all the way with her, the stuffed dog Mama made her years ago, and every night on the train and in the giant, beautiful, scary room in the Games Complex Terra hugged it to her and buried her nose in the worn fabric and breathed in the burnt-toast smell of the ethanol that gets everywhere in District 9. The smell of home.

But Cora said she couldn't bring it. "You're twelve, not six," Cora said, and she's District 9's only female mentor and that means she knows what she's doing. "The Careers get one look at you on the platforms with a doll in your arms, they're going to cut you to pieces. It's one thing to play for the sponsors' sympathy. It's something else to tell them outright that you have no chance of winning. You're smart. Make friends. Someone will keep you around for sympathy."

That doesn't sound like much of a plan to Terra, but she's not a mentor. She's just a tribute, and now she's in the Arena except it's not even a real Arena, it's just a box. Maybe the Games this year will just be watching them starve to death. Maybe all she has to do is stay here and try to get the sponsors to send her food. She could do that, maybe.

And then, the voice comes over the speaker, startling Terra into scrambling back. "Good morning, Tribute 1,265," says the woman, but it's not a real woman, it's a computer meant to sound like a woman. "Welcome to the 52nd Annual Hunger Games. We hope you enjoy your stay here in the Arena."

Terra used to have a temper, especially when the foreman told her to go in behind the machines to clean out the loose pieces of grain that fell behind the conveyor just because she's small. Mama told her it would get her killed one day. "How can I enjoy it when I'm going to die?" Terra demands, then claps her hand over her mouth.

Except it's not a real person, so it doesn't care if Terra is rude, does it. "This Arena has been specially designed for the discomfort and enjoyment of the tributes. Please remember that each trap has been lovingly designed by a real Gamemaker, not a computer, because the Capitol wants you to know: _we care_. We hope it brings you comfort and fills you with a warm sense of satisfaction to know that if you are devoured by mutts, each tooth was carefully and lovingly hand-filed by a Games attendant."

For a few seconds Terra wants to burst into tears, but then she gets mad again. This isn't fair. This isn't fun. It's just the Gamemakers putting words into a computer and making them come out through a speaker, and they're making fun of her. She's already going to die. This is just _mean_.

"Our records indicate that you, Tribute 1,265, are twelve years old. That's excellent news!" the voice continues, and Terra folds her arms and scowls. She doesn't like this. She's not sure how a computer can sound sarcastic, but it does. "Children below the age of twelve don't respond to negative reinforcement well. Cognition studies indicate that the control centres of the brains of young children activate when given praise. After the age of twelve, however, children are much more able to process negative feedback. This makes Reaping age children perfect for growing and maturing, since you are able to learn from your mistakes. The only downside, of course, is that in all probability you will be dead before much data can be collected. If you have any scientific curiosity, we therefore ask that you do your best to survive and make as many non-lethal mistakes as you possibly can in the meantime."

It's a lot of words, most of them ones that Terra can't understand because they're too long and she's never heard them before, but she still knows she's being insulted, again. They keep saying things about mistakes, and you know what, it doesn't really matter, because this is the Arena and mistakes mean dead. And Terra is here, without her token, because Cora thought she might have a chance if she didn't look so much like a baby, and that means she has to show the Gamemakers and the sponsors that she isn't.

Terra glares up at the ceiling. There's a grate where a speaker might be, and she puts her hands on her hips and scowls at at it. "I don't like you very much," she says to the computer. "If you were a real person, I'd punch you in the nose."

Terra has never punched anyone in her life, but the computer doesn't know that.

"The Capitol would like to remind its subjects that violence against the artificial intelligence in the Arena is strictly forbidden. Violence against other tributes, is, of course, always encouraged."

That almost sounded like the computer understood what she said, but that's silly. Computers can't actually do that. They can listen to commands, but they only pick up certain keywords, like 'lights' or 'soap' or kinds of food. Terra wraps her arms around herself again and turns back to the countdown. She knows it will be worse out there - out there is where the other tributes are - but for some reason she just wants to get out of this tiny room as fast as she can.

* * *

_DISTRICT 3: BLAISE_

_AGE: 16_

_TRAINING SCORE: 6_

_ODDS: 23-1_

The computer tells him to wait until the countdown is over, and not to touch anything at the risk of being electrocuted. Blaise snorts. There are no conduits, and the walls are made of concrete; even the soles of his weird boots are insulated. If they're going to lie about electricity, they probably shouldn't do it to a Three. They might very well electrocute tributes for breaking the rules, but they're not going to do it here, not unless they've found a way to make rubber conductive.

Then again.

Blaise backs away from the wall and keeps his hands raised. "Okay," he says to the computer - he can't tell if it's just prerecorded messages or a full AI, but this is the Capitol, so it's hard to say. "But you wouldn't just put us in these rooms if there wasn't a point, right?"

They could, but that wouldn't be interesting viewing, and Blaise is supposed to be curious, supposed to be smart. Beetee told him that the only way he's ever going to make the sponsors look at him is to show them how intelligent he is, and Blaise can do that. There has to be more to this room; the walls are panels joined together, almost seamless but not quite, but he can't get even so much as a fingernail in the cracks. Whatever can move the walls, he won't be able to do it with his fingers.

"The Capitol would like to remind all tributes that is important to show initiative," says the computer, and okay, so it recognizes keywords or is getting feedback from the Gamemakers, then. "As a reward, you may touch the wall panel three to your right, four down from the ceiling. Please be careful, as touching the wrong panel may cause you to suffer unwanted effects, such as tingling, discomfort, or spontaneous decapitation."

"Oookay," says Blaise, and makes a show of counting deliberately. Just before his palm touches the panel he wonders if it's a trick, but if they're going to murder him before the countdown even finishes, well, nothing he can do about that. He presses the wall, and it gives beneath his hand with a soft 'click' before springing back.

It's a gun. Blaise's eyebrows nearly jump right off his head. As far as he knows, no Games have ever used firearms because they make things too easy. He might have missed something - he never made a study of the Hunger Games before, but once he was on the train he pulled up every piece of paper the public archives would let him access - but he doesn't think so.

There's still half a minute left in the countdown, and Blaise narrows his eyes. "This can't be used on people," he hazards, looking up at the ceiling. "Otherwise you'd just be giving us all a way to commit suicide and I don't think you'd risk that."

Technically the exploding platforms could be used as a means of suicide every year, but that's messy, and Blaise remembers one year that happened and they made an example; the tribute's family turned up dead on the second day of the Games, the news reports cutting through in the middle of the Parade of the Fallen. Still, it seems weird. There has to be a reason.

Blaise points the gun at the wall, takes a deep breath, and fires. A large hole appears in the wall, ringed with orange, and Blaise is not stupid enough to stick his head through, but he does look. Through it is a room, wide and open and a brilliant white, with a handful of other chambers like the one Blaise is inside placed in a ring. Packs, weapons, and other supplies lie scattered on the floor, and when Blaise ducks around to the side and peers through to the middle of the room, sure enough, he sees the Cornucopia, piled high.

"Congratulations, you have figured out how to use the Capitol Handheld Portal Device," says the computer, and Blaise staggers back. "WIth it you may create portals. Use of the device against other tributes is strictly prohibited. Misuse of the portal device will result in death. Good luck."

Blaise gasps. He shrugs off his jacket, balls it up and throws it through the hole; it lands with a soft thump. He has fifteen seconds before the counter reaches zero. Blaise jumps through the portal, picks up his jacket, and takes off at a run. Nothing explodes, and no one stops him; the other chambers are still and silent, the tributes still inside.

Blaise's heart pounds in his chest as he snatches up the largest pack in the scattering of supplies, and, after a minute of hesitation, a package of throwing knives. He doesn't bother running for the Cornucopia; it's too far, and the countdown will reach zero soon. He takes off down a side corridor instead.

_It is important to show initiative_, said the computer, and ergo the Gamemakers, and Blaise might not be able to swing a sword, but he has initiative all right. Maybe he can win this. He runs.

* * *

_DISTRICT 1: JADE_

_AGE: 16_

_TRAINING SCORE: 10_

_ODDS: 5-1_

Jade finishes the last of her stretches, making sure the camera in the corner gets a good, long look at the catlike curve of her spine. The Twos will probably be panicking at the lack of a traditional platform, but Jade isn't a Two; she's a One, the true product, not the shabby, unpolished imitation. Two can try, and they might technically have more victors than One but that doesn't mean anything. Ones are quality, and Jade knows how to be quality.

"The odds of your survival currently stand at 5-1," says the computerized voice, and Jade doesn't remember this from any of her studies of previous Games, but it doesn't matter. "Records of previous odds for tributes from _Tribute's District Here_ indicate that you are doing well. There might even be cake in your future."

Jade rolls her eyes just slightly, not allowing the cameras to pick it up. If they were going to add a computer to talk to the tributes, at least they could make sure they fix it. Oh well. The countdown nears zero, and Jade stands back up, linking her fingers and stretching her arms over her head. Who knows what will be on the other side; it makes sense that it will be indoors, some kind of catacomb or labyrinth, but they could put these rooms in a jungle just to keep the tributes on their toes.

It doesn't matter. She's going to win. She's trained since she was twelve.

"We hope you enjoy your time here in the Arena," the computer continues, but Jade ignores it, keeping her eyes on the door. She doesn't bother staring at the countdown clock; she has a timer running in her head, and she's practiced enough that she can keep count even with three trainers shouting other numbers at her at the same time. "Although there can only be one victor, the Capitol would like to remind tributes that you are all winners. Every sacrifice made in the Arena, now matter how messy, how painful, no matter how many pieces of you are scattered around the facility, is special to the Capitol. Each one of you carries the spirit of victory in your hearts. It's just that only one of you will actually get to keep it inside your chest."

As far as intimidation tactics go, that's not bad for making the babies cry, but they'll have to do harder to get through to Jade. She digs her feet in, bounding on the balls of her feet and leaning back against the load-bearing braces they have strapped to her ankles, and prepares to run.

The counter hits zero. A hole appears in the door, but before Jade takes more than a step, a flash of light at the corner of her eye stops her. One of the wall panels has started glowing. Jade wets her lips, allowing herself one second of indecision before hitting the panel with the flat of her palm. The Twos, as predicted, have taken off running already, and that alone is reason enough for Jade to stay and wait to see if she's noticed something they've missed. The panel opens, and Jade stares at the weapon sitting on a hook in the wall.

"Congratulations on the acquisition of the Handheld Portal Device," says the computer. "We trust that you will figure out what to do with it. That is, assuming you're not just a pretty face."

They don't need to tell her twice; the Gamemakers want Jade to prove herself, not piggyback off the alpha male in the Career Pack like the One girls usually do. They want her to make herself an individual. It's a risky strategy, but if they bothered to tell her that using a computer as cover, that's as good as a mentor's coded message in a sponsor gift. Jade might be a pretty face, but that's far from everything. She picks up the gun and runs her hand over the smooth white barrel.

Jade knows better than to fire against the other tributes because the sponsors wouldn't like it, and so she slings it over her back, then runs for the Cornucopia. She has no idea why they'd give her a gun, but Jade also knows it would be stupid to ignore something given to her by the Gamemakers. Jade picks it up, and no Career has ever won using a gun - she's never even touched one before - but that's for later.

She snags a mace without breaking her stride, and drives it through the skull of the first tribute in her reach. He crumples to the ground in a wet heap, and she makes a mental tally in her head. That's one. The record number of kills for a Career tribute from her district is eight; let's see if she can do better.

* * *

_DISTRICT 5: AVERETT_

_AGE: 15_

_TRAINING SCORE: 3_

_ODDS: 55-1_

"Warning," says the preprogrammed voice from a speaker above the door. "Please exit your relaxation chamber within the first three minutes of door activation. Any attempt to remain in the relaxation chamber will be met with discouragement, such as electrification or disintegration."

Averett ignores the voice for now, staring out over the scene in front of him. It's chaos, even more than the usual bloodbath because it's different, and different means that people get confused. The Hunger Games are always different but underneath there are constants, and it's funny what turns people into a gibbering mass of panic. The Careers lock up at the sight of anything non-standard, and the outliers and little kids just freeze anyway, but not Averett. Averett is from District Five, in the middle of privilege and poverty, not a Career district but not an outlier, either, and he knows how to be flexible.

Different is good. Different means that Averett gets to wear boots with ankle supports, and he doesn't care what the reason is except that he wishes Caleb were here just so he could spit in his mentor's face. He saw the disappointment and resignation cut through the haze of alcohol when he struggled to walk up onto the stage. The doctors who are being nice call it talipes; everyone else in the world calls club feet. The Gamemakers gave him the same score as the little girl who cried the whole time; the sponsors won't even touch him.

The springs attached to his calves don't fix his feet, they don't twist them back into the proper position, but they do take some of the weight off, and that's enough. All Averett needs is a chance to escape the bloodbath, and then he can get away and do what he does best: survive.

He looks out around the room. They're all wearing the leg braces, and most of them have the strange white guns; several of the panicked tributes, the fourteen and fifteen-year-olds, are shooting at each other, glad for the chance to have a weapon they don't need to be up close to use. Except nothing happens; any time the orange or blue bursts hit another tribute, they flash and disappear. The Careers don't even bother; they head straight for the swords, and soon blood splashes the cold white floor just like it would the grass or sand of a regular Arena.

Averett narrows his eyes and fires his gun at the floor outside, but nothing happens. He steps back, looks down, and the floor of his room is different, a dark grey; this time when he fires he's rewarded by an orange oval, and he stumbles back so he doesn't fall in.

The floor just around the Cornucopia looks the same colour. Averett's breath catches in his throat, and there's nothing for it; he takes a few steps outside his room, aims the gun, and fires. A blue circle appears on the ground next to the pile of supplies.

Averett's token is a bracelet made of cables, woven for him by his brother who died in a power plant accident a few years later. They practically had to pry it from his arm in the Remake Centre, but now Averett pulls it off. Heart hammering, he throws it through the hole in his floor - sees it fly up through the hole at the Cornucopia - then it comes back through into his room. He catches it and slides it back over his hand.

He limps backward, takes as close to a running start as he can, and jumps.

The world twists under him, and he has to scramble to avoid falling on his face, but the springs attached to his calves mean he can land without more than a small twinge of pain. Around him the tributes are fighting, dying, screaming; as he watches, a little girl fires her gun at the wall, then dives through the hole and disappears. They'll be figuring it out soon, and Averett will have lost his opportunity.

There's no food in the Cornucopia; looks like they'll be relying on the sponsors this year. There are weapons, and a bunch of electronic equipment, and Averett grabs a pack, what looks like a portable battery, and shoves a handful of other supplies into an empty bag. He could never run with all this stuff before, but with the gun he won't have to.

He doesn't have to run. Now more than ever he wants to laugh at his mentor, but he'll have time later.

One of the Careers - olive jacket with red trim, the boy from One - reaches the Cornucopia. He has a sword in one hand, dripping with blood, and another shoved in his belt. "Well aren't you a fast runner," he says, swinging his weapon. "I think I'll take that pack, though. Don't try to shoot that gun at me, you know it doesn't work."

Averett points the gun over the One's shoulder and makes a hole in the ceiling on the far side of the room; as soon as he can he shifts and fires just under the other's feet. The One disappears with a shout, then reappears, flailing, in the air, only to hit the ground with a hard thud. He's not dead - Averett sees him struggle to get up, holding his shoulder - but it's enough. Averett makes another portal in the opposite wall, then jumps down and through. Another sickening whoosh as he goes from jumping down to running upright, but it only takes a second.

"Congratulations on beating the odds," says the automated voice as Averett makes his way down through the corridor. "Now the real fun begins."

Averett grins.


End file.
